


Here there be monsters

by SmilinStar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hint of May/Coulson, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She swallows, and straightens her back as she comes around the table to stand directly in front of him. She stares down at his head and can't help but mimic his tone, “I'm not in the business of torture.” Unlike some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here there be monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Episode 1x17

 

\----

 

In the end, it's just one of the many things that set them apart.

 

He sits there in that cell with his arms shackled behind his back, legs bound to the chair he's sat on and his spine ramrod straight, almost as if his very spinal column that connected his brain to every nerve ending, thought, emotion, action, word, has been replaced by steel.

 

The only clue to his struggle is the sweat that collects at his hairline, and slides along the hollow of his cheeks, soaking his torn and bloodied shirt anew. Its also there in the tension of his jaw as he resolutely refuses to bite down on his own tongue and let the whole world see his agony.

 

He may be HYDRA but it goes against every cell in her body not to do something about it.

 

She tries to remind herself of the betrayal.

 

The utter devastation in Coulson's eyes when May took that bullet to the chest. Thirty-six hours in the operating room and I.C.U. did nothing to change the fact that bullet had always intended to be fatal.

 

She reminds herself of Skye and her heartbreak when she realised the man she had fallen in love with, opened her heart to wholly, had been a liar of the worst sort. To him, she had simply been the mission, the objective, and nothing she could ever say to her would make that okay.

 

She tells herself, if the positions were reversed, he wouldn't spare them a second thought.

 

But _they're_ the monsters, not them.

 

Coulson argues, outright orders her not to set a single toe into that room. Yells at her for _betraying_ them for even thinking of it for a second, threatens to court martial her, throw her in that cell with him for good and throw away the key. She tries to ignore the hot tears shamelessly streaming down her cheeks, the wobble of her words as she whispers, _“We're not monsters.”_

The haze of anger, hatred that shutters over his eyes doesn't lift. Not until a familiar hand wraps around his arm and pulls him around to look down at her.

 

Skye's eyes are searching, open, her heart there splayed and still beating for the world to see, and these days its the only thing that seems to get through to him.

 

“She's right.”

 

His breath leaves him in a heavy sigh. Head dropping for the briefest of moments, before he raises it again and looks down at Jemma this time, “Do what you have to do.”

 

She nods curtly once, strengthens her voice, “Yes sir.”

 

He doesn't stand around to watch. Neither of them do.

 

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent standing guard moves aside at her wordless request, the heavy titanium coated door scrapes open with effort.

 

He doesn't look up at her when she enters.

 

He continues to stare ahead, his expression as dead as May in her grave.

 

She decides not to look at him either.

 

Instead, she unpacks the contents of her bag onto the table in front of him.

 

The rows of syringes, needles, metal instruments look ominously like instruments of torture.

 

“I'm going to need to reset that shoulder of yours,” she says to the 10cc of midazolam she draws up into a syringe.

 

He doesn't so much as twitch.

 

She picks up another syringe and empties another vial, “This is some morphine to help with the pain. The benzodiazepine should help relax your muscles and make it easier to pop your shoulder back into its socket.”

 

“I don't need it.”

 

His voice is gravelly, harsh and doesn't sound like the Ward she knew.

 

She swallows, and straightens her back as she comes around the table to stand directly in front of him. She stares down at his head and can't help but mimic his tone, “I'm not in the business of torture.”

 

_Unlike some._

He leans back in his chair then, the metal creaking under his weight. He looks up at her and she can do nothing to fight the shudder running through her at the coldness, the bottomless pit of nothingness in his eyes.

 

“If it helps you sleep better at night, do what you like.”

 

She's angry. God, she's angry. But the hurt, and the confusion and the disbelief are just as overpowering. And it's a road she shouldn't go down, but she can't help herself. Maybe she's weak, maybe a fool for being a hopeless believer. She's just as much a scientist as a dreamer, and she thinks one can't exist without the other, both each others strength and Achilles' heel.

 

And so she breaks. She still believes. The tiniest part of her still believes.

 

“Why?”

 

She hates that she sounds so broken.

 

And hates him even more for his apathy, “Why what?”

 

He leans further forward, as far forward as his bound hands will let him and pins her to the spot, “Why what, Simmons? Why did I betray S.H.I.E.L.D? Why did I join forces with HYDRA? Why did I double cross you? Why did I break poor orphan Skye's special little heart? Why did I as good as aim the gun and shoot The Calvalry?”

 

“No,” she shakes her head, her voice quiet but remarkably steady, “I know all that.”

 

He raises his brow and asks, “Why what, then?”

 

“Why did you save me?”

 

The words surprise him, and it surprises her that it's the only thing that's managed to get any sort of response from him. But it's a question she's tortured herself with and she needs to know. Even if she suspects the truth, she wants the words from his mouth so she can put her hopeless notion and fancy to rest, once and for all.

 

She needs to let go of him.

 

“Why do you think, Simmons?” he counters instead.

 

She doesn't say anything.

 

The grin on his face is ugly, “Come on, Jemma,” he says, “I'm fascinated to hear what you think.”

 

“I asked you,” she says, and to her own ears she sounds pitiful.

 

“No”, he says, “You know the answer to your own question, you're just scared to say it aloud, have it confirmed, have all your hopes that this is all just a bad dream crushed.”

 

She wills herself not to cry, and is thankful to find she's all dried up. There's nothing left in the tank.

 

It spews out from her lips in a rush. Words that had been weighing her down for far too long now, “You did it to make us, make _me_ like you, trust you. If you caught me, your foothold on our hearts would just become a little stronger, if you failed, never mind, you tried and you're a hero anyway for even jumping out after me.”

 

“See,” he smiles a little wider, “Not so hard was it.”

 

She stares down at him, her eyes landing on his twisted, unholy smile.

 

She's not sure what it is, and what finally falls into place but it feels like the ropes have become untethered and she's free-falling all over again. But this time, there's no fear, and she doesn't need to be saved.

 

She smiles softly at him, and the honesty of it has him shifting just a touch in his chair.

 

She picks up both syringes and sits on the edge of the table just in front of his dislocated shoulder, “This might sting a little, but it'll help with the pain.”

 

With that she plunges the needles into his biceps, one after the other, then simply pushes and pulls, applies just the slightest of traction, and the joint is back in its place.

 

She's so close to him where she's perched, little bursts of air hitting her arm as he tries to rein in his pain. She ends up closing the distance even more when she reaches around him and grabs hold of his jaw and turns his face in her direction.

 

Its hard not to notice the swallow he takes then.

 

She reaches over with her other hand and grabs hold of a swab, and presses it gently over the deep gash at the top of his head, running a few centimetres onto his forehead. She keeps her eyes on her job, cleaning the wound and securing the dressing over the top of it.

 

His eyes never leave her face.

 

She then wipes away the dried blood that coats the rest of his face, her fingers soft, gentle.

 

When she's all finished and finally, finally catches his eyes, she knows she's won.

 

For the briefest of seconds the walls come tumbling down.

 

And there he is.

 

She lets her thumb caress his cheek once, and her lips curl up just a fraction with the barest hint of a smile.

 

“You're a liar,” is all she says.

 

She doesn't glance in his direction again. Only clears up her equipment, and sweeps out of the room without a backward glance.

 

She doesn't hear him whisper back.

 

“Yes I am.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
